


13 Rooms

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Discorporation, Choking, Clones, Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Getting Together, Ghosts, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jealousy, Love, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Mutual Pining, Not Really Character Death, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Resolved Sexual Tension, Rituals, Romance, Sexual Tension, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Time Loop, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampires, Wax Play, of the unsexy kind, we'll get it solved don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: It's Halloween night, and Crowley is over the moon because Aziraphale kissed him for the first time during their last date.But then he gets a suspicious phone call from Aziraphale himself, asking for help because he's been...abducted?! What the Heaven does that mean? And why does Crowley have to go through test after test, trying to rescue him?
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 592
Kudos: 389
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. 2003ub

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a crazy project, this one. I'm doing [racketghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racketghost)'s [13 days of Halloween prompts](https://racketghost.tumblr.com/post/628733325157302272) as a chaptered fic.
> 
> If I don't die trying, I'm going to post _once a day_ , ending on October 31st.
> 
> Tags to be updated as things develop! 
> 
> EDIT: now with [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488318) by [Julibellule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibellule/pseuds/Julibellule) who took on this huge project! 💕  
> Happy spooky season 🎃 🧟 👻 🧡 🕷 🍬 🏚
> 
>   
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2003ub was the previous name of the dwarf planet currently known Eris, the Goddess of Discord.  
> Coincidentally, it’s also the name of the edgy club Crowley goes to dance the excitement away after Aziraphale kisses him for the first time ever.  
> His night will be disturbed by a very strange phone call – is Aziraphale in danger?
> 
> Prompt: ghosts.

Crowley’s Bentley is racing through London at a dangerous speed even for his standards.

He isn’t even going anywhere in particular. He just needs to go _somewhere_.

Because, and here’s the thing – he still feels the ghost touch of Aziraphale’s lips on his cheek, right at the corner of his lips, and his heart won’t stop pounding in his chest whenever he thinks about that fleeting moment of warmth.

It’s October 31st, Halloween’s night, but that doesn’t matter at all to Crowley. Some humans have decided to dress in silly costumes – and so what? Crowley’s amazed the world is still spinning. Aziraphale just did something incredible, something he'd never done before. He took a step forward, closed the distance between the two of them – the carefully cultivated safe distance that they’ve kept for thousands of years - put a steadying hand over Crowley’s beating heart, and pressed his lips to the skin right to the left of his mouth.

Crowley can’t believe the world is going on as if nothing extraordinary has happened. He almost wants to roll down the window and scream that everything has changed. Can’t anyone see everything has changed?

That’s why he’s going so fast, that’s why he can’t stop driving. He needs the distraction like humans need oxygen, his brain is going into overdrive trying to process all that this means for him, all that this means for _them_. From now on, there is a chance he might be allowed to touch Aziraphale. Now, after so many years, he might finally be allowed. And not just that, but Aziraphale might want to touch him back. And that’s extraordinary, isn’t it? He’s always watched the humans and wondered what it’d feel like to hold Aziraphale’s hand, or kiss the soft skin of his temple. To let his snake instincts take over and let his long, bony limbs wrap around Aziraphale’s warmth, holding him close. There is _so much_ he’s always wanted to try, he wouldn’t even know where to start.

Perhaps, perhaps, this is something the angel wanted all along too. Perhaps Aziraphale has been holding back only out of fear of their respective headquarters, just like Crowley has, but always carried within himself the secret wish to reach out and touch him. And perhaps now, a few months and several perfect dates after the almost-Apocalypse, they're finally going to get what they’ve always wanted.

Crowley keeps driving one hundred miles per hour. Through London and then out of London and then Satan knows how far into the countryside. It’s a couple hours before he’s calm enough to stop and take a look around.

“Where the Heaven am I?” He parks the car at the side of the road, steps out, and taps his fingers on the hood as he gazes into the distance. He huffs. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t even care. He’ll just turn the car around and drive back in town.

He catches himself doing a little spin on the spot, feeling utterly ridiculous. Luckily, there’s no one around for miles. He’s just so goddamn excited, there is absolutely nothing dignified about him right now, and he’s relieved to be completely alone.

He gets back into the Bentley and takes a deep breath. Driving like a lunatic isn’t working, he needs to try something else. He has to calm down, somehow. Get all that manic energy out before he sees Aziraphale again. He’s learned that he has to go slowly, carefully, avoid spooking the angel at all costs, particularly when he’s in such a delicate phase of transition.

But it’s so bloody hard.

On the other hand, it’s very easy to decide what to do with himself for the rest of the night. He’ll sweat out all the excitement, the same way he usually does.

The 2003UB is the newest club in London, open every night, all night long. It’s located, completely by coincidence, right next to Crowley’s apartment building.

Obviously, Crowley has nothing to do with it. It’s perfectly unsuspicious that the music caters perfectly to his tastes, or that he skips the line and the bouncers let him in for free, and that when he steps in and leans against the bar, despite it being a busy Halloween night, his favourite drink is already waiting for him.

Crowley takes a sip and eyes the crowd, witches and zombies and vampires, and sighs into his shaken Martini. He supposes there must be something comforting in playing the part of the monster, once a year - exorcise all that fear of the different and the unknown by turning it into a game. Him, well – he’s a monster every single day, and doesn’t find it all that interesting. And he thinks the number of ‘sexy’ angels strutting around is slightly offensive, to be honest.

Either way, he downs his drink in one go, shrugs off his jacket, and dives into the crowd, ready to dance like nobody’s watching.

He loses track of time, but it must be well into the night when his phone rings in his pocket – he’s sweaty and exhausted but finally, maybe, calm enough to pass out like a light once he gets home.

He struggles to get his phone out of his tight pocket and frowns at the unknown number on his screen.

“Hello?” He sticks a finger in his other ear as he rushes to the loo, trying to hear over the music and the shouting. “Hold on a moment!”

The toilet door swings shut behind him and he opens a window, leaning out to hear better.

“Crowley?”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley unglues the phone from his ear and looks at the display again before crashing it back into his own skull. “Where the Heaven are you calling from?”

“Well, this is quite embarrassing, Crowley, but… I need you to come pick me up.”

Something’s wrong, Crowley can hear it in the angel’s tone.

“Is everything okay?”

“Well.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “No need to worry, but it appears I’ve been abducted. You see, Eric here was explaining to me—”

“Eric?” Crowley frowns at the fog outside the window, trying to place that name. “Eric the demon? The young one, with like… _horns_ over his head?”

“Yes, precisely. I think they’re supposed to be antennae? Anyway, Eric was telling me he just finished his training, and he’s abducted me to prove his skills. A final test of sorts, if you will. I’m calling from his phone.”

Crowley’s frown deepens. He can’t tell if Aziraphale is danger and he doesn’t like it. Surely, Eric is an insignificant fruit fly for an angel as powerful as Aziraphale. He could free himself from whatever place he’s been brought to, no doubt about it – so, why isn’t he? Why is he calling him instead?

“And you need me to come pick you up?”

“I don’t _need_ you to come.” There, now Aziraphale sounds pissed, and Crowley is even more confused. “It would be nice if you did, that’s all.”

“Alright, sure, I’ll come. Does your new friend know I’m going to pulverise him the second I get there?”

“Please hold.” Crowley hears the noise of a polite hand covering the phone’s microphone and rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes, he says he knows, but that you’ll have to catch him first. He’ll text you the address.”

“Right. I’ll have to catch him first, he’ll send me the address. That makes sense.” Crowley shakes his head and shoves his phone in the pocket of his jeans without saying goodbye. Instead, he stares into the dimly lit mirror of the restroom.

“I don’t get it,” he says to his own reflection who, unsurprisingly, has no helpful suggestions for him.

* * *

The address he’s been given leads him to the black front door of a rundown building in one of London’s shabbiest neighbourhoods. It feels quite spooky, to be frank. And, all in all, not a very original setting for a demon.

He pushes the door open, steps inside, and the entrance shuts behind him with a loud bang. It’s completely dark inside, and there’s a sickly sweet smell that vaguely reminds Crowley of amusement parks, of excitement and candy floss.

If he rolls his eyes any harder they’ll roll down his spine.

“Hello, Crowley,” says Aziraphale’s voice suddenly, somewhere in front of him, in the total darkness.

“Angel?” Crowley hears a clicking sound above his head, and then somebody is turning on a spotlight, illuminating Aziraphale, who’s standing on the other side of the huge room, quite far from him, all the way to the left. “Ah, there you are, let’s go.”

Aziraphale smiles and shakes his head.

“What?” Crowley takes a step closer to him. “Why wouldn’t you—”

He’s interrupted by more clicking sounds in rapid succession as more lights are turned on. Next to Aziraphale, he can now see… another Aziraphale. And then another. And then one more.

Four Aziraphales, all looking at him, all smiling.

“Are you having fun, traitor?” Eric’s voice asks from somewhere to his right, making him start.

Crowley jerks his head towards the sound, but nobody seems to be standing in the darkness next to him.

“It’s _Master_ Crowley for you, muppet.” He hisses to the empty space beside him.

“Not anymore. You betrayed us!” Eric’s voice comes from his left. Crowley is now officially irritated.

“Let the angel go immediately and I’ll consider not dunking your head in holy water, you little prat.”

“Why don’t you go and get him? He’s right in front of you. Oh, of course…” Eric giggles somewhere behind him. “You don’t know which one is the real one.”

Crowley growls in frustration, walking up to the four Aziraphales and looking from one to the other, trying to tell them apart. And to think that, on any other day, being in a room with four Aziraphales would be a dream come true, and a very inappropriate one at that—

But that’s another matter altogether. Crowley is _not_ going to think about that right now.

“Come on, angel. I’ll take you home.” He says, picking a random Aziraphale – the one of the far left to start with.

“I would never go with you, you filthy demon.”

_Ouch_ , that stings a bit, Crowley has to admit – but at least now he knows that’s not his angel. “Right. Next.”

The Aziraphale who called him a filthy demon evaporates in a cloud of white smoke. So these clones aren’t even real, he realises. They’re just projections. A very basic trick. Really, any demon with half a brain cell can do that. “I’m not impressed,” He shouts back over his shoulder to Eric. “You’ll need to do much better!”

The second Aziraphale fiddles with his golden ring when Crowley extends his hand for him to take. “Oh, Crowley, I don’t know… I don’t think I can go with you… what if someone saw, it’s only been a few months - maybe Heaven would still take me back, if I just behaved—”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley growls, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. This is not the real Aziraphale. The real Azirpahale would never want to go back to Heaven. At least, that’s what Crowley hopes with all of his shrivelled little heart. “Next.”

The second Aziraphale vanishes, and Crowley exhales in relief.

The third Aziraphale takes a step forward. “I didn’t need you to come for me. I could have got out myself.”

Crowley smirks – now this is more like it. “So why didn’t you?”

“Well… I, uh…”

There’s a long silence as this Aziraphale worries at his lower lip, coming up empty.

“Next,” Crowley sentences. Because, if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that Aziraphale always has a flimsy, ridiculous excuse ready when it comes to getting rescued. He’s spent centuries making up scenarios in which Crowley could step in, get him out, and the they'd have an excuse to spend some time together. He could do this in his sleep.

There’s only one Aziraphale left, which means he has to be the real one.

“Thank you for coming,” the angel says fondly, and immediately steps close to Crowley. Very close. _Too_ close.

Crowley swallows and takes a step back, a jumbled array of consonant working its way out his throat as this Aziraphale takes his chin between thumb and forefinger and grabs him at the waist. The angel licks his lips and looks down at Crowley's mouth.

“Next!” Crowley shouts, although there’s no next. But the Aziraphale disappears anyway, proving himself to be nothing but a ghost too.

The spotlights all turn to a red door in front of him just as it begins to open. Eric gasps.

“You weren't supposed to figure that out so fast!” There’s a sound like the younger demon is fumbling with the microphone, and then a faint, proud, _‘I told you he would’,_ said by a voice Crowley would recognise anywhere. _Aziraphale_. He sounds calm, smug even, and Crowley is suddenly much less annoyed of having been dragged into this mess. If Aziraphale is rooting for him, he might just play along.

“Right,” he says to the empty room as he walks through the door. "I'll be there in five, angel."


	2. Charon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon is the name of a moon of Pluto, as well as the name of the ferryman of the Dead, known for his ruthlessness and bad temper.  
> What will he ask Crowley to grant his passage?
> 
> Prompt: bones

Crowley steps into a second room and finds himself in a different place altogether. This isn’t a room at all – he doesn’t even seem to be in a building anymore. There is a river in front of him and, past that, a tall mountain.

The air is hot and humid, sticking to his skin in a way that makes him feel like he can’t breathe much at all – and even though he’s a demon, and he doesn’t have to breathe if he doesn’t feel like it, it’s still quite unpleasant.

He looks left and then right, but there seems to be nothing around except plain dirt as far as the eye can see. There’s no way for him to go but forward.

Usually Crowley loves all bodies of water. He adores going to the beach to sunbathe, enjoys taking a dip in a lake. Rivers are fun too, he’s been known to shuck off all his clothes on the riverbank and go for an impromptu dive every now and again – but this river is different. This one looks like it has… _things_ , floating just below the surface. Unidentified objects that hum quietly and would be better left alone.

He spots something in the distance floating towards him on the water. He raises his sunglasses and squints until he can identify what it is - or, better yet, _who_ it is, and groans loudly when he does.

“I can’t believe this.” Crowley puts his fists on his hips as he watches the ferryman of Hades himself make his way towards him on a little boat. He immediately pulls his phone out and dials Eric’s number, which has been automatically saved in his contacts for him. It even has a nice picture of the younger demon making the peace sign to go with it. Probably, Crowley shouldn’t even have service right now, but the thought doesn’t occur to him, so his phone works anyway. “Dante’s Inferno? _Really_? And I thought the trick with the ghosts was unoriginal.”

“It’s a classic!” Eric, on the other end of the line, sounds extremely offended by this remark.

“Predictable is what it is.” Crowley pinches the skin between his eyebrows, right under the bridge of his glasses. “Right. So. I’ve been around long enough to know how this goes. Does he take cash or credit?”

Eric doesn’t seem to think that’s funny at all, because he gives a long-suffering sigh that vaguely reminds Crowley of human teenagers talking on the phone with their old, uncool parents, and hangs up.

Crowley doesn’t chuck the phone in the river just because he might need it again very soon, but it’s a close thing.

“Hullo,” he says to Charon, ferryman of the souls, when the boat floats close enough to where he’s standing. “I don’t suppose I could hitch a ride?”

The old man glares at him for a long moment, literal flames dancing behind his pitch black eyes. God, Crowley always hated Dante’s flair for the dramatic. Then again, he’s given the writer more than a few ideas on a drunken night in Florence, so he’d rather not think about it too closely.

“Woe to you, wicked demon! I shall not carry you to the other shore. Never again will I accept a passenger that has two eyes, two legs, two hundred and more bones on my boat. You shall not pass unless you can pay.”

Crowley crouches down to be eye-level with the creature sitting on the boat, holding tight to his oar like he might at any moment swing it and bonk Crowley on the head. “Cool, cool, let’s cut to the chase here, how about you tell me what you want and we get it over with? I need to go, someone’s waiting for me.”

“You shall pay with coin you earned.”

Crowley grimaces. “Ah, see, that’s going to be a problem, all the money I have on me has been summoned by yours truly.”

“Then you shall pay renouncing one of your dearest memories.”

Crowley frowns. He really does not like the sound of that. “Such as?”

Reality falls out from under him.

He’s not standing by the river anymore – he’s not even in London. He’s in Rome. It’s 41 AD, and he’s sitting in front of a plate full of empty oyster shells. Aziraphale is laughing next to him, wiping away a tear as he pours them more wine. And then the angel turns to him, and their eyes lock. Aziraphale’s ever-changing eyes - blue or green or grey, shining with an emotion neither of them can name, because it’s the first time they encounter it. And the angel – he has an uncertain, shy smile on his face, and that’s when Crowley realises what this is: _companionship_. This weird, kind, hedonistic angel has more in common with him than anyone else has ever had. The Romans call it ‘sympathia’: feeling together, feeling in the same way.

In the next blink, Crowley finds himself in a straw bed that he remembers very well. He’s in France, and it has to be the thirteenth century - he can smell it in the air. He’s lying in bed, sick as a dog. He thought it wasn’t possible for him to be sick, but apparently if you believe something hard enough and you have supernatural powers you can be anything you want, violently sick included. Aziraphale is sitting on the edge of the bed, muttering something about how Crowley needs to remember he’s not human, no matter how much he likes them. The angel applies an unnaturally cold hand on his forehead and it feels like a blessing. Crowley moans something incoherent and Aziraphale shushes him, but it’s gentle, so very gentle, he’s just telling him he needs to rest. It’s the first time Crowley can remember someone taking care of him. Aziraphale stays long after the fever is gone, pretending Crowley is still sick - because Crowley’s nightmares are terrifying, and having someone to squeeze his hand when he wakes helps calm him down. Neither of them acknowledges this truth at all.

A heartbeat later and it’s the present day, and Aziraphale is pressing his lips to Crowley’s cheek, and it makes Crowley’s body tingle from head to toe. Aziraphale pulls back with an uncertain smile, like he’s proud but embarrassed, giddy but uncertain, and it takes every ounce of self-control Crowley has not to tilt forward and slot their mouths together again, kiss him until his lips stop prickling and his heart doesn't feel full to the brim.

The three memories disappear, and Crowley is once again under the hard stare of the ferryman of the dead.

“Which one will it be, devil?”

Crowley twists his lips in a grimace. “Ah, I think none of them, actually.”

“Then you may not ride this boat.”

Crowley holds up a finger and grins. “Not in this shape, no. What was it? No creatures with two eyes, two legs, two hundred bones? I can fix that.”

Slowly, he shifts into his serpent form, and sneaks as close to the boat as he can get without touching the suspicious water. Charon is scowling down at him but, reluctantly, he extends his oar for Crowley to climb.

“Much obliged,” Crowley says as he coils around it. He supposes he’s lucky he can’t smirk like an insufferable arsehole in this form, because he wouldn’t really put it past Charon to catapult him like a wet sock on the other side of the river.

Halfway through the ride he spots the next red door, stuck in the rocky wall of the mountain, even though it makes no logical sense, and wonders to himself just how many of these he’ll have to cross.

Not that it matters. If Aziraphale needs him, he’s always going to come.


	3. Pluto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pluto is the God of Death, as well as the planet associated with renewals and unearthing the truth. In this room, Crowley sits down to watch what would have happened if Aziraphale had been the one receiving the Antichrist, that night in the graveyard in 2008.
> 
> Prompt: graveyard.

Crowley is relieved to step into an actual room next, no weird rivers or old men glaring at him. Just a regular room, four white walls, a floor, and a ceiling. It has a single plush red seat in its centre and a big screen on the wall in front of it. It looks like a little home cinema for one.

“What, no popcorn?” He asks to nobody in particular, rather sure that Eric must be watching him. He sits down making it a point to slouch in the seat as much as he possibly can.

A film reel countdown appears immediately on the screens and Crowley settles down to watch.

The ‘movie’ opens on a graveyard. Crowley squints – isn’t that…? Yes, he’s pretty sure it’s the same graveyard on the way to Tadfield where he was first handed the Antichrist. He remembers that night very well - it was the moment he knew he was royally fucked.

“What Dickensian kind of bollocks is this? Am I being visited by the ghost of the Antichrist past?”

He blinks as the camera moves on to two figures standing side by side in the dark. He’s expecting to see Hastur and Ligur’s merry faces, and he’s very surprised to recognise Gabriel and Michael instead. What the—

“Gabriel! Michael. So sorry to be late. It took some time, convincing the cab driver to take me so far out of London.” Aziraphale waddles his way to them in the mud, tugging up his trousers so they don’t get too dirty.

“No problem, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, patting him hard on the shoulder as soon as he’s within reach. Aziraphale winces but says nothing. “Next time we’ll come to you instead, so there won’t be any delay.”

Crowley can hear the threat in that sentence and bristles at it from his seat.

“Aziraphale,” Michael says, taking a step forward. Gabriel nods in her direction, and she extends her arm towards the angel. In her hand, she’s carrying a wicker basket that Crowley knows all too well.

“No way,” Crowley says to the empty room. Is this what Eric is planning? Making him watch a dramatic re-enactment of the Antichrist ordeal, with Aziraphale in his place? “Dickens? I gave you too much credit. You’re pulling a Freaky Friday on me.”

On the screen, Aziraphale takes the basket. Crowley, who knows him like the palm of his hand, can see the mounting horror and fear behind the angel's politely toned down expression. “Oh, i-is this—?”

“The Antichrist.” Gabriel slaps his hands together enthusiastically, grinning to Michael, who’s smiling back at him with a manic glint in her eyes. “The one who will destroy this world and start the Great War at last.”

“Destroy… this world?” Aziraphale blabbers, staring down at the closed basket. “The Great War…”

“Yes, Aziraphale. Is there something wrong?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow and stares him down. “Are you questioning the Great Plan?”

“What—no, no, I would never, oh, it’s the Great Plan, isn’t it? It can’t be questioned, it’s… it’s ineffable.” It’s painful for Crowley to see that familiar, tight smile on the angel’s face. He’s always known how Heaven was treating him, but seeing it on screen makes his stomach turn. “It’s just so soon, isn’t it? Barely six thousand years and I—as the Principality that’s been stationed on Earth the longest, my professional opinion is that it’d be a bit of a waste to destroy the whole thing, that’s all.”

“It sounds very much like you’re _questioning_ , Aziraphale,” Michael points out, and Gabriel nods along.

“N-not at all, me—I have no questions, none. Oh, well, one, actually—where do I deliver him?”

Michael hands him a piece of paper with the address, and Aziraphale opens it to read, but Gabriel’s pointing his big dumb finger at his face.

“Don’t be late this time, okay? Those nuns are kind of weird, and you wouldn’t want to mess up your most important mission, right?”

“O-of course not. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

Gabriel and Michael exchange dubious looks.

“I’m expecting confirmation it all went according to plan by tomorrow,” the way Gabriel talks to him as if he’s a toddler makes Crowley’s blood boil. Thankfully, the two archangels are already turning away, and soon they’ve disappeared into thin air.

Aziraphale slumps his shoulders. He stuffs the piece of paper into his pocket and, cautiously, tugs up the blanket over the basket to take a look.

“Oh. I thought you’d be… you look rather normal, for an Antichrist. Well, anyway.” He sighs, mouth twisting in a grimace. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale gets back in the cab, hands the drivers the new address with a shaky hand and promises to pay handsomely for the ride. He sits with the basket on his knees, worrying at the hem of his jacket all the way to his destination, his gaze unfocused and distant.

In the end, it’s not a very complicated ordeal. Aziraphale drops the Antichrist where he’s supposed to, doesn’t even realise what’s wrong with the nuns and why they all look so weird, as preoccupied as he seems to be with his own thoughts. The nuns take in the baby and Aziraphale gets back in the cab, asking to please be dropped off at the bookshop.

When he gets there, he makes himself a strong cup of tea.

He doesn’t call Crowley. He doesn’t stop to call Crowley on the way there, and he doesn’t call Crowley once he’s alone in his shop. Instead, he paces back and forth, opens and closes several books, picks up the phone but never dials any number.

Eventually, as the sun begins to dawn, he lets himself fall back into his armchair, exhausted, and the screen simply turns black.

Movie over.

Crowley claps slowly. “Well done, pipsqueak.” He smirks, making sure to show most of his teeth. “Why don’t you come down here? I have a gold star sticker for you.”

Eric’s voice reaches him from some unidentified point above him.

“No, I don’t think I will. So… still want to come and get the angel?”

Crowley lets out a bark of laughter. “Still want to— _of course_ I’m still coming.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Let me be very clear with you – he doesn’t need me to. You must have realised it yourself, haven’t you? He’s just playing along out of some weird sense of pity for you. He could crush you like an ant.”

“I don’t think so. Well, on the crushing like an ant—maybe, yes. But also, he seems rather annoyed with you.”

Now _that_ takes Crowley aback. “What—why?”

“How would I know? I’m not the one fraternising with the enemy. I’ve abducted him, we aren’t making friendship bracelets together.”

“Give it a couple days.” Crowley snorts. Well, whatever it is Aziraphale is upset about, they’ll figure it out later, once he's got rid of Eric and it's just the two of them. “So, I’ve earned my door, I think.”

Eric sighs as the screen in front of Crowley rolls up and disappears into the ceiling, revealing a little red door. Crowley jumps to his feet, stretches, and starts walking towards it.

“Wait,” Eric calls after him. “Wait a moment – aren’t you upset he wouldn’t have called you in my simulation? He’s not actually your friend, you’ve seen it!”

Crowley, hand already on the doorknob, turns back to look at the empty space behind him. “You understand _nothing_ about Heaven.”

He swings the door open and walks through.


	4. Neptune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neptune is the planet associated with illusions and fantasies.  
> Crowley is turned into a vampire and Aziraphale is dangled before his eyes, within reach of his teeth.
> 
> Prompt: vampires.

Crowley steps into the room and feels the clothes he’s wearing shifting around his body. He bares his teeth in annoyance and realises he’s suddenly sporting fangs.

“What the—”

His hands fly up to his face to feel the sharp teeth jutting out of his mouth, then up to his ears, which are suddenly cold and pointy. When he looks down, he realises he’s wearing a dark cloak that’s so long it brushes against the floor.

He runs his hands down his face. What stupid book or movie has Eric gone pilfering from this time?

His question is answered when a big object is lowered from the ceiling. Well, not quite an object – as it becomes evident soon enough. It’s Aziraphale himself, loosely tied to a black pole with a small platform at the bottom so that he has somewhere to stand. The whole thing is overly dramatic, cheap looking, and honestly kind of stupid.

“Oh, hello,” the angel says as reaches the floor.

“Glad to see you’re having fun,” Crowley hisses at him.

“Now, Crowley,” he wiggles excitedly against the rope that’s tying him as if he finds the whole game very entertaining. Crowley’s reminded of all the hours Aziraphale has spent practicing his magic tricks, and sighs. Of course, of course this ridiculous act would be right up his alley. “I have my own reasons for helping out the young demon.”

“Which are?”

“Oh, a subject for another time, I believe.” Aziraphale clears his throat and averts his gaze. “There’s some sort of test you need to pass now.”

Crowley decides not to insist – for now. Even though he’s really curious, at this point, what Aziraphale’s motivations are and why Eric said he was annoyed with him. “And you don’t know what it is?”

“Oh no, I only had Eric promise me it wouldn’t be dangerous. Or harmful to you, of course.”

“You trust a demon’s promises?” Aziraphale’s eyes snap back to Crowley’s face. His lips move like he’s looking for something to say in his defence, but Crowley cuts him off before he can speak. Sometimes, he likes to push the angel to admit his contradictions, but sometimes he’d rather not pressure him. It’s a delicate balance, and he’s had a lot of training with it. “Never mind.”

Crowley takes a long look at the empty room around him, its walls dark blue and empty, save for a big mirror on the right. He goes to stand in front of it to see how the cloak falls on him – and is shocked to see the cloak standing on its own in the reflection, as if worn by an invisible person.

“What the—”

Next, comes the hunger.

He turns towards Aziraphale and notices immediately how rosy and warm his cheeks look. He slinks closer.

“Crowley?”

Was he always able to smell Aziraphale’s skin like this? Hard to say. It smells very sweet and a little musky. He knows every cologne the angel has ever worn, every brand of tea and wine they’ve ever tasted together – it’s all filed away in Crowley’s memory, all precious to him. But the smell of Aziraphale’s skin has never been so strong, not until now. Crowley can’t help coming even closer, until he can see the throbbing vein on the angel’s neck.

“C-Crowley?”

Crowley blinks up at Aziraphale, realises he’s been licking his lips without noticing. “Uh,” he says, unhelpfully.

“I think you might have been temporarily turned into a vampire.”

“What.” Crowley looks back down at the cloak – thinks about the fangs, the ears, the mirror, about how delicious Aziraphale smells right now. “Shit. Shit shit shit _shit_. Is that what this is? Bloody hell. Do I look like Tom Cruise to you?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale frowns, apparently having no idea who that is, or pretending he doesn’t.

Crowley shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. “So what is my test, exactly?”

“Your demonic nature.” Eric’s incorporeal voice reverberates in the almost empty room. “It won’t allow you to resist. You will succumb to it, and you will bite him, because your satisfaction is more important than anyone’s discomfort.”

“Eric!” Aziraphale shouts towards a corner of the ceiling. “This wasn’t what we agreed upon.”

“No no, it’s fine,” Crowley grits out, stumbling away to sit as far from Aziraphale as he can possibly get. “I can do this. Not a problem. Let him play. If he thinks I’ve lived on this Earth six thousand years and learned not a thing about free will…”

Aziraphale looks at him, a sombre expression on his face.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley asks, gently.

“Ah, nothing,” Aziraphale replies, and it’s painfully obvious that there’s _something_ , but that he doesn’t want to talk about it yet. It’s frustrating, but that’s Aziraphale for you. “I suppose… if we wait enough time and nothing happens, he’ll have to let you win, won't he?”

“ _Let_ me win?” Crowley stands up and begins pacing the room. “Oh no, this runt has got nothing on me. Just because I don’t reek of sewer or walk around with an iguana on my head, it doesn’t mean he gets away with disrespecting me. I did good work, Aziraphale. For thousands of years. I did everything they asked for, and then I found ways to work _around_ what they asked for, to do what I actually wanted to do too. He can’t even begin to _understand_ my work. And did anyone ever appreciate it?”

He’s not sure why he’s getting so worked up about it. It’s all in the past, isn’t it? Maybe something about being a vampire makes him more susceptible to anger. Or, maybe, wearing a costume makes it easier to be honest about the things he thinks it’s ridiculous to be upset about.

“You did get all those commendations—”

“For things I didn’t do, Aziraphale!” He turns around and realises he’s walked close to the angel again without even noticing. Aziraphale is right there, so inviting, so warm, and Crowley’s hand is suddenly on the angel’s shoulder, gripping it tight or holding onto him, he’s not even sure. “For things the humans did all by themselves! Do you understand how frustrating—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, gravely. “I do.”

Crowley finds his lips are parted, his entire body poised to attack. One bite. One bite would solve all his problems. It would calm him down, make this deep, burning feeling in his chest go away, sate his hunger. All he has to do is press his teeth against Aziraphale’s soft, fat neck, break the skin, just enough to draw blood, and—

“Crowley? Are you alright?” Aziraphale’s voice brings him back from the precipice, and he blinks up at the angel. “Listen, Crowley, I… I wouldn’t mind. If you bit me, that is. If it can help you, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley asks in a whisper. “Don’t do this to me.”

Because he’s sure that it’s not all blood hunger, this thing he’s feeling right now. The idea of tasting Aziraphale’s neck sounds incredibly appealing to him on any normal day. But then Aziraphale is tilting his head to the side, offering, and Crowley realises his hands are shaking. His entire body is pressed against the angel’s side now, breathing hard as he tries to hold back the need to eat him up whole – and suddenly, he knows. He knows that if he doesn’t stop right now he won’t stop at all.

He jerks himself away, almost stumbling on his own feet and landing against a wall.

“Crowley—”

“No. I won’t do it.” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m more than my demonic nature, damn it.”

“Oh, my dear—but of course you are. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, do you now?” Aziraphale is leaning against the rope, straining towards him. “I really believe you don’t. Not to me, not to Eric, not to yourself.”

The hissing sound of a speaker being hurriedly turned on interrupts them.

“Enough, enough,” Eric’s voice says in a rush. “I was trying so hard to do something cool, and then you two had to go and ruin it. I can’t take any more of this heartfelt crap! You win this one. It was getting boring as Heaven anyway.”

The small platform Aziraphale is standing on lifts from the ground. “I’m going to give Eric a piece of my mind,” he assures him as he’s brought away the way he came, a small smile on his face that signals Eric is indeed in big trouble. Crowley taps two fingers to his forehead to salute him and realises his heart is pounding in his chest. He’s just—so desperately fond of this infuriating, smart, ridiculous, beautiful angel, and so glad he resisted and didn't bite him.

Then, he turns to the spot Eric’s voice is coming from.

“You have no right to talk about _boring_ , you little prat.” He says as a red door appears on the wall beside him. “You have yet to produce a single original idea, you know?”

Crowley makes it a point to hurry through the door and slam it shut behind him.

“We’ll see about that,” Eric’s voice promises to the empty room.


	5. Uranus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uranus is the God of the Sky. Anathema comes across a very interesting prophecy concerning the sky and the earth. In the meantime, Crowley has some fun.
> 
> Prompt: witches.

Newt kisses Anathema on the top of the head. She’s surrounded by empty cups, since she's been reading coffee grounds for hours now. There was a lot of frowning involved, and definitely too much caffeine.

“Can I bring you another one?”

Anathema smiles, reaching out to squeeze Newt’s hand and looking up at him, spotting the concern in his voice. “Oh, thank you Newt, but it’s okay. Everything is fine. Actually – this is extremely interesting. I’ve been getting signs all week that something great is about to happen.”

Newt knits his eyebrows together. “Not another Apocalypse, I hope.”

Anathema laughs. “Oh no. No, this is… something good. I _think_. It’s very hard to tell. You see here—”

Newt nods along for a good three minutes as Anathema explains. He’s tried, but he doesn’t understand anything at all about divination. He’s a computer guy – well, he’s the guy who makes computers blow up, to be honest, but that’s not the point. The point is that he knows his math, his science, his logical arguments, and it all seems a little too arbitrary outside of that. But Anathema is very happy when she talks about something she’s passionate about, so he sees no reason to stop her, and he loves listening to her talk about whatever.

“—which shows us that something exceptional is about to happen, and yet most people won’t even notice. It’s as if… as if two contrary yet equals forces are about to come together as one. It’s all a little unclear, but it’s big, I can tell you that. And yet also small, private.”

“That’s fascinating,” Newt agrees, looking at her. “So definitely good news, I reckon?”

“I suppose so, yes.” She stares down at her coffee grounds accusingly, but they don’t seem to be revealing anything more at this time. “But there’s something… something might prevent it from happening. We need to step in.”

“We need to – hold on, we need to do what exactly?”

Anathema is already on her feet, looking for her coat. “London. That’s where it’ll happen.”

“London where?” Newt, who’s learned his lesson by now, is rushing to look for his shoes. When Anathema gets like this, she needs to follow the thread of her intuition to its end, and he needs to keep up or be left behind.

“Not sure. We’ll see the signs once we’re there.”

“London…” Newt whines while wrapping his scarf around his neck. “You want me to drive there on Halloween night?”

“I don’t.” Anathema opens the door, grinning as she feels the cold wind against her face. “The coffee grounds do.”

“I suppose I should be glad you decided not to look at a bird’s entrails after all.” Newt follows after her, shivering. “Who knows what _those_ would have said.”

They get in the car and Anathema pulls out a book from her purse that looks way too big to have been hidden in there all along. Newt glances over every now and again, but doesn’t interrupt her reading. She’s working, even though he understands little to nothing about the kind of work she does.

“Here’s the thing,” she says suddenly, just like he knew she would once she figured it out. “This prophecy, penned in the 16th century, predicted that – wait, let me translate, here… something about how sky and earth, parallel entities for so long, would finally get to meet in the middle, but—something about lack of air? Lack of oxygen? Something needs to happen before they do meet.”

“Sounds a bit ominous.” Newt clutches the steering wheel. “Well, prophecies have plenty of metaphors, don’t they?”

Anathema smiles at him, and he feels very proud to have got something right.

“Yes! And then… and then there’s another bit about how fast the clouds are when they move in the sky, about how the earth might seem dull and boring in comparison. But, actually, the earth is quiet and nurturing and full of wonders.”

“And what makes you think this particular prophecy is related to whatever is happening tonight?”

“Hmm.” Anathema flips through a few pages. “Here, it says… when the earth and the sky will join, it will be a quiet, but extraordinary affair. It matches my readings perfectly.”

Newt nods. Anathema is generally pretty sure of herself, but today even more so. “So we need to go there and…”

“Not sure. Yet. We need to… uhm, get rid of possible disturbances? It’s a little unclear on this point.” She stares out of the window for a moment. “Here’s what we’ll do, we’ll get to London and I’ll use my crystals to find the precise spot we need to be.”

“Fair. And then?”

“And then, we’ll wait. We’ll know when we’re needed.”

Newt smiles. He’s never had much adventure in his life before meeting Anathema. And he loves it, and he loves her.

* * *

Crowley is suspended mid-air, hanging from a rope. He has his ankles crossed over the rope and a hand wrapped tight around it while he extends his other arm to finally reach the diamond at the centre of an intricate net of red beams.

Beneath him, only sky.

The moment he clutches the diamond in his palm, the sky vanishes and the floor appears again, and he lands – more or less gracefully – on his feet. He’s grinning.

“Alright, this was fun, I’ll give you that. But somebody didn’t do his homework, did you now? You should have known I’m a big James Bond fan.” He tosses the diamond in the air and catches it, feeling extremely cool, for once in his life. Then, he realises something. “Oh – did the angel force your hand on this one?”

With that, Crowley barks out a laugh and saunters towards the next door, hoping there will be more good rooms such as this one.


	6. Saturn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturn is the God of dissolution and renewal. Crowley gets stuck in a time loop at a decadent party, and giving up on something he really cares about seems to be the only way out.
> 
> Prompt: costumes

As soon as he steps into the new room, Crowley realises he’s just walked into a memory.

He’s wearing the very same pyjamas he wore during his century-long nap, between the end of the 19th century and the start of the 20th. Right after the fight with Aziraphale over the holy water, that is.

He groans loudly. He knows, of course, that demons can easily rummage through anyone’s memories and toy with them, but they always make such a mess of them. It's an imprecise science, they can't really _see_ the memory themselves, they only sense it's emotionally significant and manipulate it blindly. Which is troubling.

This isn’t Crowley's memory, though - aside from what he’s wearing, nothing else feels familiar. The opulent ballroom isn’t a place he’s ever been in before, nor does he know any of the gentlemen crowding it.

He’d feel out of place, stepping into this fancy place in his old pyjamas, but he soon realises everyone’s in costume, so he doesn’t stand out at all. A man is dressed like a snowman, one like a policeman, one like a prisoner. If Crowley remembers correctly, this kind of costume parties weren’t a thing, back then. Whoever gave them the idea?

Then he spots Aziraphale. This has to be a memory of his, then.

The angel is dressed just like he was in the Bastille, the day Crowley saved him from decapitation. Which, Crowley thinks, feels a little like cheating at this whole costume-party thing.

Aziraphale is talking animatedly with a human dressed (or rather _undressed,_ Crowley comments in the safe confines of his own head), like an ancient Greek god, a white piece of fabric draped over a muscular shoulder and around his waist. Judging from the trident he’s holding, he’s supposed to be Poseidon, perhaps. Crowley can’t really tell and doesn’t actually care.

He knew, of course – he knew that after their fight, when they didn’t talk for years and years, Aziraphale had felt lonely. He knew the angel had gone and looked for company in this kind of establishments – places for rich men with tastes that weren’t openly accepted by society back then.

He’d wondered. But one can’t really ask, right? You don’t just walk up to your best friend and ask him if he’s banged some humans while you two weren’t talking. It just doesn’t work that way. Although some gentled variation of the question has been burning in his throat for a century or so.

The point isn’t even if Aziraphale has or hasn’t - what Crowley actually wants to ask, what he’ll never be brave enough to ask - is whether the angel, seeking company, has ended up finding someone better than him. Someone easier to deal with, someone who’d never ask him for dangerous favours or tease him about his beliefs. Someone that isn’t Crowley.

Not that it matters. Aziraphale has no obligation to be faithful to him now, and he surely didn’t back then. Crowley can’t be jealous.

He just can’t.

Still, the way the young man laughs and taps Aziraphale on the shoulder makes his insides twist.

A gramophone starts playing, and all the men assemble to dance together. Crowley decides quickly he’ll watch from the corner of the room rather than joining in. That’s when he spots her – a young child, three or four years old, clinging to her doll, looking around as if lost. What’s a child doing in a place like this? Nothing inappropriate happens in the ballroom, there are private rooms – he supposes upstairs – for that. But still, this is the last place he’d expected to see a child.

He turns towards Aziraphale and sees the man has leaned over to whisper something in the angel’s ear, making him giggle, and Crowley can’t hold back any longer.

He grabs two glasses of wine from a table and saunters over to them, placing himself conspicuously between Aziraphale and his friend. “Wine, angel?”

“Crowley! What are you doing here?” The Aziraphale from the memory looks astonished to see him – as he should be. The last time they met each other, for him, is when they had their bitter fight about the holy water.

“Ah, well, I got bored of sleeping. Anyway. What have you been up to?”

Aziraphale starts talking and, out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees the other man slowly backing away. Good. There is only so much a demon can take, and standing in a corner watching his angel getting flirted with is a little too much, even if it’s just a memory.

A piercing cry makes him snap the stem of his wine glass in half – it’s the child, sobbing so loudly the music stops and everyone rushes to see what happened. Crowley runs over and realises she’s dropped her doll on the floor, and that someone must have stepped over it while dancing and ripped it to pieces. He could miracle it whole again, but the little girl has already seen it. He crouches next to her, not even a handkerchief to offer. “Hey, it’s fine. We’ll get a new one, alright?”

The child looks at him, and just as she opens her mouth to speak something incredibly weird happens – time freezes, and it had nothing to do with Crowley’s intervention. Time freezes and then, slowly, it reverses, people and objects moving backwards until Crowley finds himself standing to the side of the room, watching Aziraphale being chatted up by the young man dressed like Poseidon once again.

Determined not to let this cheap trick stop him, he again strolls there to interrupt them – and again, he succeeds. The human steps back and then away. Again, the music stops when the child cries, and Crowley goes to comfort her – and the scene freezes and starts again from the beginning.

A time loop. He’s stuck in a bloody time loop.

He’s watched enough television to know he needs to find that one element that will stop it from happening over and over again, and he bets it’s something to do with the child – she’s the odd one out in this place.

Instead of running to Aziraphale, he goes to her first. He takes her hand and brings her as far as possible from the area of the floor where people dance, and tells her to stay put. _Then_ he gets some wine and inserts himself in Aziraphale’s conversation with the young man, getting rid of him once more.

It all works out perfectly until, again, the child cries. Crowley turns around and sees someone bumped into her and she fell to the floor, bruising her knees, and she dropped her doll, which got trampled over once again.

Satan fucking damn it.

Back to the start, he goes to the child, picks her up, and scans the room with his eyes until he finds two gentlemen on the couch whispering and smiling at each other. He picks the younger one of them and drops the girl on his knees.

“You look after her, you hear me? I’ve got something important to take care of, I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Aziraphale is again surprised to see him, then eventually distracted from his human friend by Crowley’s questions. Crowley thinks he’s finally figured it out - until the girl starts crying again.

He turns around, sees her in the middle of the ballroom, clinging to her broken doll. Crowley’s quick to gulp down his wine before the time loop can start again.

Fine. It's fine. He knows what he has to do.

He goes to the child and takes her hand. He finds two chairs and sits down with her. “Will you tell me about your doll? What’s her name?”

The girl smiles at him. “Anne.”

They start playing together. Crowley steals a tie-back from a curtain and pretends it’s a little friendly snake come to chat with Anne the doll.

When he glances at Aziraphale, he sees the young man grabbing him at the elbow, pulling him away and towards the stairs. The angel is blushing, laughing, and following him.

Crowley drops his head and sighs. It feels _wretched._ It’s one thing to suspect it might have happened, it’s another completely to see it with his own two eyes. Did Aziraphale really use to follow humans upstairs? Did he taste their lips, let them take off his clothes – oh, the thought alone is enough to make Crowley sick to his stomach.

It should have been him.

The music stops one last time, and everyone in the room freezes – except for Crowley.

“Hey! This isn’t what you were supposed to do,” Eric’s voice whines. “I worked so hard on this room too.”

“Did you?” Crowley won’t even pretend to be impressed. This was just a low blow.

“Yes! I thought you had some demonic nature left in you. Other demons have been whispering you had a soft spot for human children, but I didn’t believe them. You were supposed to ignore the silly child.”

“Well, sorry to rain on your parade.” He pats the girl on the head and stands up, suddenly extremely tired of this stupid game. “Where’s my door?”

Eric doesn’t reply, but a little red door appears in front of Crowley.

He turns back before he leaves. The image of Aziraphale is frozen while laughing, like a photograph, and sure – Crowley’s not the one standing next to him, but he’ll never begrudge him for looking for happiness elsewhere.


	7. Jupiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jupiter is the planet associated with growth and healing. In this room, Aziraphale and Crowley face a painful memory together.
> 
> Prompt: bonfire.

Crowley sighs irritably when he finds himself in yet another movie room, though this time it looks like there are two seats instead of one.

“You’re losing steam here, twerp.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale, who’s sitting in one of the seats, turns around to look at him from over the headrest.

“Uh, wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh, oh I know.” Aziraphale fiddles with the ring of his finger as Crowley walks around the seats to take his place.

“So? Did you tell Eric his little vampire flick wasn’t any fun?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale nods, and Crowley can’t help but notice he’s looking at his knees, at the floor, at the wall, at anything that isn’t Crowley. “He promised to never come up with such unpleasant tests for you again.”

“And then he did anyway,” Crowley points out, mouth twisting in a snarl as he remembers the memory of Aziraphale walking off with the human.

“And then he did anyway,” Aziraphale agrees. “I think… since I’ve noticed he keeps testing your nature—I reckon he’s having some trouble wrapping his head around the concept that demons do not have to be evil. That’s why he keeps putting you in these appalling situations. But, well—maybe if he sees that you aren’t like te other demons, he might choose become a better person himself.”

“That’s a rather optimistic assessment of this entire ordeal.” Crowley crosses his arms behind his head, extending his long legs in front of him. “I think he’s just a sadistic little muppet. They all are.”

“Not you, though.”

Crowley feels the corner of his mouth curling to smile despite himself. “Me? Depends. I like to think my plans aren’t as artless and unoriginal as little moth boy’s here.”

Aziraphale stifles a chuckle and clears his throat. Then he takes a deep breath, expression suddenly serious again. “Crowley, I… about what you saw in the last room, it was—”

“None of my business.” Crowley straightens up in his seat, careful to keep his gaze trained on the blank screen.

“Perhaps. But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I… I knew what usually happened in those places, but I wasn’t—that wasn’t the reason I was in there. You were nowhere to be found, and I was always on my own, and—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley looks at him over the rim of his glasses. “I’m serious. It’s none of my business.”

“Then listen as a favour to me, please.” Aziraphale braces himself on the armrest, turning to face him. “I know I was never a good angel. I like food, and I like comfortable clothes, and I hoard precious books even though I shouldn’t. And yes, sometimes I like the company of humans, they can be clever and interesting and lovely. But never— _never_ like that, you have to believe me.”

“Angel,” Crowley debates for a moment whether to put his hand over Aziraphale’s, then decides to be brave and reaches for it. The angel’s fingers are warm but restless, and hopefully the contact feels reassuring. It’s hard, learning to touch after keeping themselves at a safe distance for so many years. It’s like learning how to swim, he just has to try and hope he doesn’t drown. “I’m glad you’re not ‘a good angel’. All the ones I’ve met are pricks.”

Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile. “Crowley, you’re—”

Without warning, the movie starts. “Oh joy. I wonder what it is this time,” Crowley says, and pretends to forget to let go of Aziraphale’s hand as he turns around. The angel makes an amused sound, and Crowley feels warmth spreading up his arm and all the way to his neck. How silly. He’s an old snake, he’s been around since Adam and Eve, and yet a simple touch like this has him all flustered. He’s so glad for his dark glasses right now.

On the screen there is sky and then clouds, and then finally Heaven’s headquarters. Aziraphale’s hand twitches under Crowley’s fingers. It seems Eric went foraging through memories again - Crowley's very own, this time. He must have sensed this was something Crowley didn't want to show Aziraphale.

The camera moves in to show Aziraphale tied to a chair while Gabriel talks to him. Of course, that’s not actually Aziraphale. That was Crowley in his body, facing his punishment for him.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley gives his hand a firm squeeze. “You don’t have to watch this.”

But the angel has his eyes glued to the screen, though he has a look on his face like he’s watching a car crash. “No, actually… I’ve always been a little curious about how it went exactly.”

“You could have asked.”

“It didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it.” Aziraphale swallows while, on screen, Eric waltzes in with the Hellfire. “I didn’t want to press.”

They watch the rest of it in silence. How Eric wanted to hit him, how Crowley scared him away. How Gabriel didn’t want to hear anything else from Aziraphale, how Crowley tried to act like the real angel would, poised and dignified to the very end. How the column of fire swallowed him without hurting him, how scared the archangels looked.

Crowley’s gaze is fixed on Aziraphale as the angel stares at the black screen long after the clip is over. The angel’s face is blank and inexpressive as it very rarely is, and Crowley waits for him to speak first.

It takes a few moments. Aziraphale presses his lips together, blinks quickly, and glances down at the floor, then finally back at Crowley.

“I…” He turns his hand over, intertwines his fingers with Crowley’s. If this wasn’t such a delicate moment, Crowley would be over the moon about it. Aziraphale smiles, and it’s so fake and sad it hurts deep in Crowley’s chest. “Well, I don’t know what I expected. Nobody is able to make you feel like an idiot quite like Heaven does, isn’t that right? So many years in their service, and they…”

“Aziraphale.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now.” He nods, as if he’s trying very hard to convince himself.

Oh, for Somebody’s sake – Crowley hates this stiff upper lip bollocks.

“Aziraphale. The fact that it’s in the past doesn’t make me want to shove Gabriel in that bonfire any less.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale turns to him, trying hard to sound like he’s scolding him, but his smile looks genuine now.

“Oh, alright, fine, you’re right. That’d be a right waste of finely made clothes.”

Aziraphale turns the other way, tries not to show he’s laughing, but Crowley sees the slight shake of his body and grins. When Aziraphale looks up at him again, though, his eyes are wet.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

“Don’t mention it.” A door opens to the side of the screen. “Can we go off and have a drink? There are better ways to spend a Saturday night.”

“Would you humour me a little longer? Watching how Eric acted up there I think it’s even more important to show him that he doesn’t have to be like this. And if there’s really nothing to be done – if he keeps watching you act against what he thinks is supposed to be your nature and doesn’t learn the lesson, I promise I’ll be the one to put a stop to this.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Fine, alright, I’ll play along.” He makes for the door, waving back at Aziraphale has he goes. “See you on the other side.”


	8. Ceres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceres is the largest object in the asteroid belt that surrounds the inner planets. In astrology, it’s associated with growing and family-like connections.  
> Crowley and Aziraphale’s connection will be tested with a little game Aziraphale himself came up with.
> 
> Prompt: oujia.

Of the many things Crowley was expecting to see, a room-wide Ouija board definitely isn’t one of them.

Aside from that, the room is completely empty. And there is no planchette in sight, which means…

“Ah, fuck, am I the planchette?”

Eric’s voice erupts through a speaker above him. “I’m not happy about it either.”

“Wh—you’re not happy about it? You made this!”

“This was done at the angel’s insistence. He said he could come up with a better test for you.”

Crowley grins. “A few hours, and he already has you whipped.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Eric mutters.

“What was that, you little wanker?”

“Know what, I’m going to let you talk to your _best friend_ now.” Eric puts just the right amount of emphasis on the words _best friend_ to let Crowley know exactly what he thinks of that. “He’ll explain.”

After some shuffling, Aziraphale comes on the line.

“Hello Crowley, it’s me.”

“Why, I thought it was the Queen of England.”

“Oh. Why would you?”

Crowley sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Talk to me, angel. What are we doing here?”

“Oh, right, I thought this would be fun.” Crowley doesn’t trust Aziraphale’s definition of _fun_ , but nods along anyway. “Do you know Ouija boards at all?”

“Do I—” Crowley sputters. “Are you kidding me? Any demon who’s been in Hell for five minutes knows how to operate an Ouija board.”

“Oh. I just thought… well, it must have been a while for you, and—”

“Aziraphale. I remember how they work. Go on. What do I do?”

“So, I’m going to think of a word, and I’m going to write it on a piece of paper, which I’m going to give to our young man over here—”

“Not a man.”

“—and then I’m going to try and communicate with you, and if you can compose the right word, we pass the test.”

Crowley frowns. Alright, yes, there’s something appealing and even romantic about the idea that they have some sort of special mind-connection and together they can unlock the next room, but he’s worried. Let’s be honest, communication has never been their strongest suit. And also, unlike Aziraphale, he just doesn’t think this is any fun at all.

“Fine, okay. Let’s start,” he say anyway.

He hangs up and closes his eyes. The two of them have never really tried to talk this way, but he remembers, more or less, what he should be doing. Clear his mind, relax his shoulders, try to tune in to a person’s specific energy.

He perceives Aziraphale the same way one perceives the low buzzing of a fan in another room: a comforting kind of white noise, low and a little far away.

Crowley focuses. And he focuses. And he focuses. Sometimes, he hears a thump in the static, like a voice trying to speak and being immediately silenced. Then, finally, something that sounds like a letter. A letter… which letter?

Crowley moves to step on the ‘u’.

No, that’s not right. He puts his foot on the ‘v’. Is that correct? Maybe.

His phone rings.

“What?”

“Crowley! I’m really making an effort over here, I keep prodding and prodding – aren’t you feeling anything?”

Crowley will not comment on that choice of wording. He will not.

“A ‘v’?”

“No! It’s a ‘w’, obviously.”

“Uh.” Crowley looks down at the ‘w’ on the board, right next to his feet. “Didn’t feel like a ‘w’ at all. What was the word?”

“Wilde.”

“ _Wilde_?”

“Yes. It seemed simple and elegant.”

“ _Aziraphale_. What are you—you’re smarter than this, come on. Choose something I’m going to guess!”

“Alright, alright, let’s try this again. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and stuffs his phone in his pocket.

He tilts his head left and right, rolls his shoulders, and tries once again to relax. Let’s be real, mindfulness has never been his top skill.

It takes a while, but this time the sound of Aziraphale’s voice is much clearer when he tunes into it: ‘s’… ‘h’… ‘e’? No, that last one is definitely an ‘a’. And then ‘k’ and ‘e’.

“Ah!” Crowley steps off the ‘e’ and knocks on the wall in front of him, expecting to see a door. Instead, his phone rings.

“You absolute fool! We were doing so well.”

“What?” Crowley is so surprised he looks back at the board, but, no, he’s pretty sure he got it all right. “ _Shake_. Wasn’t it _shake_?”

“It was _Shakespeare_!”

“Why the Heaven would you pick something so long?! You’re terrible at this.”

“ _You’re_ terrible at this.”

Crowley gives a frustrated groan. “Listen, one more time, alright? Let’s try this one more time. And for somebody’s sake, pick something _easy_!”

He hears, faintly, Eric snickering behind Aziraphale, and it only infuriates him further. Which isn’t good at all, he needs to keep himself focused.

He crouches on the floor. It helps him think. He’d coil, if he could, but it’s hard to do it in this form. He can’t force himself to relax, but he can let his mind drift until it finds something nice to cling to. What’s nice? Music. Music is nice. Vinyls. Record shops. Monstera leaves. Greenery – like in Eden, everything was so green and peaceful, he was the only outsider. Aziraphale – on the wall, white and shiny and fidgety. How he turned from easy prey – something Crowley could play with, tease, make squirm a little – to the first good angel he’s ever known. Radically disobedient, but so quietly, so carefully, without ever getting caught.

Crowley’s feet move before he knows it.

‘B’. ‘E’. ‘N’. ‘T’. ‘L’. ‘E’.

He realises what Aziraphale had him spell only when he lands on the ‘y’. _Bentley._

The door appears before him and he grins at it.

“See, that wasn’t hard,” he says, for Eric’s benefit, before leaving the room. The feeling that Aziraphale is right there, in the back of his mind - he basks in it for a long time after the game is over.


	9. Mars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mars is the god of War, aggression and impulsiveness. Eric finally crosses the line and Crowley’s had enough.
> 
> Prompt: possession.

Anathema and Newt watch a small crowd of demons gathered just outside a rundown building. Normally, they wouldn’t have paid any attention to a random group of people hanging in the street. But, well – supernatural powers or not, they were bound to notice six identical clones huddled together, talking closely.

“What should we do?” Newt turns to Anathema, who’s counting something on her fingers.

“Salt. We should get lots of salt. Come on.”

She’s already walking away (how does she even know where to get salt at this time of the night?) and Newt jogs after her.

* * *

In the next room, Crowley finds Aziraphale waiting for him.

“Hey there. Can we go now?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, I suppose so, yes. Eric just let me go and said to wait for you here.”

Crowley doesn’t trust that at all. Aziraphale might trust Eric a little because he seems so young and inoffensive, but Crowley knows better. Also, he’s feeling responsible, somewhat, for putting it in Aziraphale’s mind that demons can become good people, that they can be trusted at all.

When he steps closer to the angel to take his rightful place at Aziraphale’s left, he expects something bad to happen. Like the ceiling caving in and burying him in rubble, or something suddenly exploding, or a colony of bats sweeping in and attacking him, getting stuck in his hair or something – instead, there’s only the light brush of the angel’s knuckles against his own.

Can they really go?

“Ugh, do we have to go back the way we came? It was quite the hike,” Crowley whines.

“Can you miracle us out of here?”

“Nah, he’s put wards or whatever all around the building. Annoying little bugger.”

“Oh. What can we do?”

Crowley starts palming the wall behind them, wondering whether he’ll find a hidden door somewhere. “I’ll—”

It’s barely a shadow in the corner of his eye. It appears out of nowhere and it launches itself straight at Aziraphale. Crowley can feel the crackling of demonic energy about to wrap itself around a soul. He knows exactly what is about to happen.

 _A possession_.

Eric is going to try and possess Aziraphale.

It happens in an instant. Before he knows it, he’s thrown himself at Eric, and they’re rolling on the floor together. He has his wings out, and claws, and fangs, and he’s screaming so loud he’s spitting in the demon’s face.

“ _HOW DARE YOU._ ” He closes his hands around Eric’s throat and watches his eyes go wide in panic. “ _DID YOU THINK I WOULD LET YOU?_ ”

Eric makes a strangled sound and his eyes turn towards Aziraphale, looking for help maybe, but the angel doesn’t move to rescue him. He thrashes under Crowley’s grip for a few good minutes while Crowley keeps screaming at him. Crowley doesn’t even know _what_ he’s screaming, he just knows his throat feel hoarse by the time Eric discorporates. Too soon, leaving nothing for him to grip onto, leaving him shaking on the floor in anger.

Aziraphale leaves him a few moments to gather himself, then he’s behind him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Crowley.”

Crowley takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “Sorry.” His voice sounds low and gravelly to his own ears.

“No, please. I’m… I’m the one who’s supposed to apologise. I got us into this mess. He seemed inoffensive, and I thought… I thought I could show him, perhaps, that he can have a choice. I was a fool.”

“Stop. That’s not your fault.”

“No, it is. I was upset over something silly, and I accepted to follow him, in part, because I wanted to see if you would come for me. As if you wouldn’t have – as if you haven’t always done so. I was the one testing you, and that was idiotic of me, and I apologise.”

Crowley stands up and turns to look at him, running a hand through his hair, trying to clear his mind. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I… when we said goodbye, when I leaned in and…” Crowley hears it loud enough, in Aziraphale’s pause: _when I kissed you_. “I thought, maybe… maybe you didn’t want that? And you didn’t reciprocate at all, you just stood there…”

“I was stunned, Aziraphale. It was the first time, I—”

“I thought that might be a possibility. So I came to ask you, but I found you… well.”

“In the club? Dancing?”

Aziraphale averts his gaze. “Dancing very closely to other people, yes. N-not that you can’t, I mean, we never said…” The angel shakes his head. “I acted foolishly. I got upset. I realised I am… well, I lead a boring life, Crowley. And that’s not what you want. You like the excitement, and the crowds, and I’m just… I’m not that. Maybe it was good when we saw each other every other Wednesday, but you’ll be bored with me in the long run.” His voice breaks on the words. “You already are. I… took a chance, and you ran away to look for something more exciting to do. And I don’t blame you for that, you have every right to. I was just a little disappointed, is all.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. It’s the most he’s heard Aziraphale admit to anything in… ever. And it’s all so goddamn wrong. How is it all so goddamn wrong?

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale hurries to say, smiling even though his eyes are wet. “It will be. It’s a big change, not having a side anymore, but I’ll get used to it. And, of course, I value our friendship more than anything else, therefore—”

“Aziraphale.”

“—you don’t have to do anything, or say anything, we will simply—”

“ _Aziraphale_.”

“Yes?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He’s on his feet, adrenaline still pumping in his veins as he grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders and presses him into a wall. He just—he needs him to _listen_. They’ve spent too long hiding, omitting, pretending. It stops now. “I thought it’d be too much _for you_. I was trying to hold back _for you_. I was looking for distractions so that I wouldn’t overwhelm _you_.”

“Oh. Oh, but why—”

“Why?! Because! I’ve always been the one talking you into things you didn’t want to do. And you’ve always let me. But this, Aziraphale – whatever this is or will be, this is too important, and I won’t talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes falling to Crowley’s lips.

“So you’re going to have to show me what you want, because I don’t—”

Aziraphale grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, pulls him in, and crashes their mouths together.

* * *

“And this is how you play…”

Outside the building, Newt is holding his phone with shaky hands as he explains to a horde of identical-looking demons how to play Candy Crush. Which he downloaded for this exact purpose. They’re all very interested, reminding him vaguely of a bunch of kittens watching a bit of string being wiggled in the air for their entertainment.

While he distracts them, Anathema has been pouring salt in a circle all around them, pretending she’s feeding birds rather than pulling out fistfuls of salt from her bag and dropping it on the ground.

Thankfully, the demons don’t question why a woman would be out in the street feeding pigeons at this time of the night, nor why a human would want to get close to them and show them a game on his phone. They’re too enthralled with the colourful shapes on the screen. Anathema finishes her circle and crosses her arms, waiting. Newt can only hope she was right about how he’d have an easy chance of escaping, at some point.

It’s only a few minutes before all of them flinch at the same time.

“Newt, now!”

Newt holds tight to his phone as he jumps over the salt, careful not to break the circle. The demons try to follow but crash into an invisible barrier and realise they’re trapped.

“W-why are you doing this?” One of them asks, but Anathema shrugs.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ve been up to some sort of mischief. Prophecies don’t lie.”

“We’re demons, it’s what we do!” Reply the trapped demons, all at the same time. “And one of us has just been killed. Again.”

“Well, I’m sure you had it coming,” Anathema tells them, wagging her finger at them before she turns away and begins walking back to the car.

Newt looks at them and feels a little bad. “Sorry. Here.” He throws his phone at them. “At least you’ll have something to do for a while.”

The demons look at him, surprised, then down at the phone that one of them grabbed. “Oh… thank you,” one of them says. “By the way, our name is Eric.”

“Hi.” Newt waves a little awkwardly – after all, he did just help to trap them in a circle of salt. “I’m Newton. Nice to meet you.”

“Newt, come on!” Anathema calls from the car.

“I-I’ll call you, okay? I’m sure I have my own number… somewhere. Check how you’re doing.” The Erics blink at him, apparently not knowing what to do with that. “See you.”

Newt gets to his car, sits down, and wonders – has he made a new demon friend?

Or, maybe, an entire horde of them?


	10. Gaia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaia, personification of the Earth itself, is the goddess associated with the act of creation. Aziraphale and Crowley face a mysterious room that seems to change based on their behaviour.
> 
> Prompt: legends.

Crowley steps into the new room on wobbly legs.

He told Aziraphale he’d need to show him what he wanted – and show him he did, kissing him soundly in the previous room. For someone who makes it a point to always act politely and properly, Aziraphale’s tongue had no trouble at all getting to know Crowley’s mouth very thoroughly, nor did Aziraphale’s hands shy away from grabbing him at the waist, pulling him in, and then grabbing him by the buttocks, making Crowley gasp into the kiss.

He realised he was panting only when he broke it off to mumble against Aziraphale’s lips.

“Let’s get out of here. I have some Musigny Grand Cru I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

Aziraphale, bless him, chuckled. His cheeks were flushed and his lips plump and red, and Crowley thought it had to be a sin to look so well-kissed and gorgeous. “Yes. Let’s.”

Crowley snapped his fingers – and nothing happened.

“Ah. Right. The wards. I had… forgotten, for a moment.”

Aziraphale nodded along. “The only way out is through, I suppose.”

“What was the point of this room, anyway?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped.

“ _Oh_ what? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Eric said something about how you’d be furious and finally show your true colours.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “S’pose I proved him right, didn’t I?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale put a warm hand on his cheek. “There are so many of him, you didn’t actually kill him. Besides, I would have done the same if I’d been in your place. Does that make _me_ evil?”

Crowley hadn’t been able to keep the smile off his face. “You are a little evil. Just enough.”

Aziraphale smiled right back. “That’s—oh! There’s the door.”

Crowley turned around and, sure enough, a little red door was right behind him. They were so busy making out they hadn’t even noticed.

* * *

The new room is completely blank, at first. As soon as they step in, though, it becomes very dark and the temperature drops.

Crowley can only see a few feet in front and around him. He groans. “The sodding video game room.”

Aziraphale, right behind him, blinks up at him. “What is that?”

“In Hell. As you may have noticed, demons aren’t really up to date with what’s going on with the humans. Particularly lately, when trends have begun to change much faster. So I suggested we had a video game room, where demons could train and learn about human culture.”

“Was that just an excuse to play video games instead of working?”

“Er, possibly.” Crowley shrugs. “That’s not the point. The point is that Eric used the fog of war in this room.”

“Fog of—what? What is it?”

“Do you notice how we can’t see very far ahead? It’s a video game thing. In some games, you can only see the areas you’ve already explored.”

Aziraphale frowns. “That doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Anyway. Stay close to me, I’ll go first and find a way out.”

Aziraphale gives him a small, knowing smile, and Crowley feels uncomfortably _seen_. Yes, he’s trying to play hero here. So what? Aziraphale loves to be rescued, Crowley gets to play out one of his fantasies. He thinks it works out great for everyone involved.

“Yes, darling, _please_ , do get us out of here,” Aziraphale says with just a little too much emphasis, and Crowley would be annoyed he’s being made fun of if the _darling_ wasn’t ringing in his ears.

He replies with a grunt and starts walking.

He gets the feeling the scenery is being generated as they walk through it in response to their words and action. He whines that it’s too cold, and soon there’s snow under his feet. Aziraphale wonders aloud how long they have to walk yet, and the ground becomes steep and rocky.

Crowley realises he's somewhat out of breath, a feeling he associates with high altitudes. Are they climbing a mountain?

“Bollocks to Eric and all copies of him.”

A weird noise answers him, and it’s not Aziraphale.

“What was that? The angel asks.

Crowley hisses through his teeth. “I don’t know, and I don’t like it.”

He’s distracted by Aziraphale’s taking his icy hand in his warm, soft ones. “Let’s hurry.”

Crowley has no time to whine that running isn’t dignified for a demon of his class. After all, there are worse things than jogging through a mysterious room with an angel holding his hand.

Very soon, he hears the noise again. It sounds like… roaring? An animal of some kind, anyway. A big one.

It’s not long before he spots it, only for a split second before it dives back into the shadows. Is that… is that a bloody _yeti?_ It’s a huge, white creature, and it’s definitely hunting them.

“Uh, angel…”

“Yes. I saw it.”

They go faster. Truth be told, Crowley doesn’t feel in danger at all. He might not be able to get out, but he still has his powers if anything goes awry. Though he’s not going to point that out as long as Aziraphale holds his hand.

The roaring becomes louder just as the terrain changes around them, sharp rocks rising from the ground.

He hears the sounds of steps behind him just as Aziraphale suddenly drags him off path. The angel hides them behind a rock and presses a finger to Crowley’s lips to let him know he needs to be quiet. It takes every ounce of self-control Crowley has left not to make a completely inappropriate noise.

The steps come closer. Aziraphale pushes Crowley up against the flat side of the rock with his body, making them as inconspicuous as possible, and Crowley can’t help the tiny, wheezing sound that escapes his lips. Aziraphale is protecting him _with his own body_ from whatever is stalking them, and Crowley’s had one too many inappropriate dreams that start exactly like this.

Aziraphale has his head turned to the side to see if they’re being followed, and his blonde curls tickle Crowley’s nose. They’re so soft, just like he thought they would be. Aziraphale has both hands on Crowley’s shoulders, pinning him to the rock, and Crowley swallows loudly.

Is this the worst possible time to get aroused? Yes. Can he stop it from happening? Probably not.

He’s breathing a bit too hard when the sound of steps begins to fade and Aziraphale takes a step back.

“We’ve been going for a while, I figure we must be close by now.”

“Ngh,” Crowley agrees.

And, just before Aziraphale turns away from him because he’s seen the door nearby, and he begins leading them towards it, Crowley spots it – a glint of amusement and excitement in the angel’s eyes. Aziraphale is having fun. Which means, also, that he probably knew exactly what he was doing, pressing him against that rock.

Crowley loves him. That’s the bare truth of it. This entire night might have taken a ridiculous turn, every room weirder than the last, but what he feels – that’s very real, and not ridiculous at all.


	11. Venus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Venus is the planet and the goddess of love.  
> Crowley and Aziraphale end up in a room that works very differently from all the others.
> 
> Prompt: haunt.

The next room is much nicer. It’s pleasantly warm, for a start. And it’s the first room that looks like an _actual_ room he could find in any house - there is a bed and a couch, and they seem plush and soft. Everything is in lovely shades of pink and red. On a small coffee table there are a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, blushing as he takes in the room.

“What?” Crowley is immediately on guard. What else is he going to have to deal with tonight?

“Well, I-I…”

“ _What_?”

“Oh, this is embarrassing. It’s my fault entirely, really.”

Crowley turns to him, frowning deeply. “What is?”

“Er, well… “ Aziraphale wrings his hands, averting his gaze. “Eric said that if he couldn’t prove you were a properly evil demon, then he’d… he’d make a room you could only win by being _good_. By showing you can love as much as any human. He said you’d find that embarrassing.”

Crowley makes a disgusted sound at that. “And how would I do that? There’s nothing here. What am I supposed to do with a bottle of champagne and a be—” Crowley chokes on his own spit. He looks between Aziraphale and the bed, suddenly realising what the obvious suggestion is here. “—ed?”

Aziraphale keeps his gaze on the floor, long eyelashes against pale cheeks. “If it’s not a bother, we could try—we could try kissing. See if it works. Eric's gone, anyway.”

Crowley gulps. A bother? No, it’s not a bother. The only bother here might be the raging boner he’ll have to carry around afterwards.

“Right.” Crowley takes off his glasses, folds them slowly and puts them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Sure, he can kiss Aziraphale. What’s the problem? He’s been thinking about it since time immemorial. He’s thought about much more than kissing. No big deal. He’ll just… he’ll just take a few steps forward, and then he’ll duck his head and… and…

That’s when Crowley realises it’s always been Aziraphale, all along. Aziraphale who always sat a little closer to him, who initiated most physical contacts they’ve had since the non-Apocalypse. Aziraphale who kissed the corner of his lips, Aziraphale who pulled him in and snuck his tongue into his mouth.

He realises, all of a sudden, he’s done almost nothing. He’s just been following Aziraphale’s lead. Which feels natural, but—he’s allowed now, isn’t he? To be the one to reach out, without fear the angel will pull away.

This is not the first time they kiss. But it feels like it is, his heart beating in his throat as he stands in front of Aziraphale and wonders what to do with his hands.

He decides to put them on the angel’s shoulders. Yes, that’s a good idea. It steadies him without going anywhere inappropriate. Though his fingers twitch as he remembers in a flash Aziraphale grabbing his arse without any shame whatsoever.

He takes a deep breath. Aziraphale is smiling up at him, waiting, not a hint of nervousness on his face, lips slightly puckered in wait. And that’s the detail that does him in – seeing Aziraphale so receptive, finally available and ready. Crowley shifts forward, and it’s an easy thing to press his lips to the angel’s. So very easy to let himself fall in it, to part his mouth and deepen the kiss, to stop thinking about it and let his body do what it wants – what it’s wanted for _so goddamn long_.

Something nudges at his back as they kiss. He doesn’t pay much attention to it, not until Aziraphale presses closer to him with a noise of surprise. They break the kiss and turn around to look.

The furniture has disappeared – just like most of the room has. In fact, the walls have literally closed in on them, leaving them just enough room to stay pressed against one another. It’s not uncomfortable, not at all, Crowley could spend a day or two squished against Aziraphale’s body - but it’s still ridiculous. He looks at Aziraphale for a clue as to how to react – and the angel chuckles.

“Oh dear,” he says, running his knuckles along Crowley’s jaw in a way that feels both affectionate and proprietary and sends a sweet shiver down his spine. “This certainly would be very awkward if we weren’t already—”

“Yes,” Crowley hurries to agree, because he’s not sure he can take any variation of what Aziraphale is about to say. Not right now, not with blood roaring in his ears and one of the angel’s thighs conspicuously pressing between his own.

Satan help him.

Aziraphale gives him a long, searching look, and smiles. Crowley can’t imagine what he sees. He’s blushing, isn’t he? He can feel it, his cheeks are burning hot. How dare they. He soon decides it’s a better course of action to kiss Aziraphale again, at least the angel can’t see him too well if he’s very close.

Aziraphale seems to agree. He makes a small, hungry noise in Crowley’s mouth and Crowley feels his sanity on the verge of slipping away from him. His hands sneak underneath Aziraphale’s jacket, fingers splayed open on the angel’s chest – and when he realises what he’s doing and tries to pull away, Aziraphale grabs him at the wrists and keeps him there. He guides his hands to the buttons of his waistcoat, and Crowley distantly hears himself whimper as he undoes them one by one with shaky fingers, his wrists held tight in a strong, firm grip.

Next, Aziraphale’s hands guide him to the bowtie. That silly tartan bowtie. How many times has Crowley dreamed about undoing it with his teeth? But that was a fantasy, that was a version of himself that is smooth and bold and confident. A far cry from the mess he is right now, knees turned to jelly, arousal pooling hot between his legs rendering him unable to think.

With the bowtie out of the way, Aziraphale’s hands move his fingers to undo the tiny buttons of his shirt, and Crowley suddenly realises – there will be skin underneath. An undershirt, maybe, but he’ll be able to touch Aziraphale’s bare neck anyway, perhaps even the soft skin over his clavicles. So many layers, and yet the angel is letting him – encouraging him, even – to strip them off one by one, and the thought pushes all the air out of his lungs.

He finds a thin, white undershirt when he opens Aziraphale’s pale blue shirt all the way to the bottom. And then the angel leads his hands farther down, to his hips, to the waistband of his trousers, and Crowley swallows hard as his long fingers slide lower, over the conspicuous bulge on the front.

That’s when it becomes real, for him, what is happening and what they’re doing. Aziraphale is _hard_ for him. That’s Aziraphale’s erection he’s feeling against his fingers, through however many layers of fabric. Aziraphale wants him, and he’s very deliberately letting him know he does.

“Angel, is this—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes against his lips. “Oh, Crowley, please, I’ve waited so long, so if you—if you want, anything you want…”

Crowley’s head spins. _If_ he wants? Of course he wants. It’s just a lot all at once, and he’s feeling a little overwhelmed. He presses his lips to the side of Aziraphale’s neck, breathes in the smell of his skin, tries to steady himself. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe this is finally happening.

“Aziraphale, are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Please, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s warm hand cups the back of his head and Crowley wants to curl into that touch, live in it forever. “I’ve waited for such a long time. _Please_. I can’t possibly wait a moment longer.”

Crowley forgets how they got here. He forgets they’re technically still in the middle of Eric’s trap, on Halloween’s night, trying to get out of this room. In the narrow space between those walls that would feel suffocating with anyone else, Crowley drops to his knees, lifts Aziraphale’s undershirt, and trails kisses along the waistband of his trousers.

His fingers stop on the fly and he looks up at Aziraphale for confirmation once again. The angel is smiling down at him with unbearable fondness, and Crowley has to make a conscious effort not to turn into a snake and wrap himself around him. He swallows and slowly drags down the fly, then opens the button at the top – makes a mental note to tease Aziraphale about his vintage underwear later. Later, when he can speak again, because right now words have deserted him altogether.

How many times has he dreamed about this? To be on his knees and to take Aziraphale into his mouth, stretch his lips around the length of him, taste him, give him pleasure, make him moan?

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley almost bumps his head against the wall behind him in a rush to pull away. “Come here, I’ve changed my mind.”

Crowley stands up, confused, and Aziraphale kisses him once again, before he’s the one to go down on his knees instead. Crowley gives a little undignified yelp at the sight.

Aziraphale nuzzles his cock through the harsh material of his jeans and Crowley almost jumps out of his skin.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like for you to enjoy this without having to do a thing.” He’s licking his lips as he struggles with the button of Crowley’s jeans, and Crowley feels his cock twitch and dribble in his pants.

Aziraphale looks up, an eyebrow raised in question, and Crowley nods enthusiastically, his mouth dry, his erection painfully hard in his underwear. Yes, yes, of course it’s fine, the only problem might be how long he’ll manage to last, which might be not long at all.

Aziraphale – the bastard – gives a little giggle at that shaky response, then finally manages to get his jeans to open, wraps his warm hand around the base of Crowley’s cock and licks away a bead of precome at the tip in one slow, wet stroke.

Crowley slams both hands on the wall in front of him. Is it possible that he wants to pull away and push in at the same time? Because that’s how he’s feeling right now. This is too much – not enough – overwhelming – way too little – he’s going to discorporate - he’ll never be tired of this, he can tell right now he needs to try this another ten thousand times and it will never, ever be enough.

He must be making the most embarrassing noises, but he can’t really help himself at all. He keeps his eyes shut tight, but that leaves him with nothing to focus on except Aziraphale’s wet, hot mouth working around him. He opens his eyes, and that’s somehow worse and better, because now he can see the angel looking up at him, amused, desperately fond, lips around the head of Crowley’s embarrassingly stiff cock. His other hand is down between his own legs - he’s palming himself through his ridiculous vintage underwear, which might be the hottest thing Crowley has ever seen in his entire existence.

From that moment on, Crowley loses his sense of time. Aziraphale kisses down along the length of his cock, licks, sucks – as if he’s experimenting to see what he likes to do best and what gets the best reaction out of Crowley. He seems to be having a lot of fun with it, and Crowley, well – he’s doing all he can to hold back and not come unexpectedly all over the angel’s face. Which is a thought he neatly packages and sets away for another time.

“Angel,” he grits out when he can’t resist any longer. “I need to—let me do _something_ , I’m losing my mind here.”

Aziraphale pulls off of him with an obscene sound that Crowley will never be able to forget and stands up. “All yours,” he says simply, as if there isn’t a small revolution happening in this tiny room for two.

Crowley gently turns him around and buries his face in the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Angel,” he hears himself say as he tugs down Aziraphale’s trousers and underwear. “Angel, angel, angel.”

He closes his hand around Aziraphale’s cock, thick and heavy inside his fingers, and the angel moans – he _moans_ , and it’s the best sound Crowley’s ever heard. He squeezes tight and begins pumping, like he’s done so many times with his own cock, thinking desperately and guiltily about Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who’s now here in his arms, and Crowley can’t fucking believe his luck.

The angel rests his forehead and elbows on the wall while Crowley grabs him at the hip and begins grinding against his arse. Aziraphale makes a shocked sound of pleasure and presses back against him. “Yes, Crowley, yes, let me feel all of you, please, please, please—”

Crowley doesn’t quite reply, all he can repeat is a slurred mantra, the word _angel_ on his lips over and over, and then suddenly he’s there, his orgasms forcing his spine to bend and the hand on Aziraphale’s hip to grip him tight while he spills on the small of the angel’s back, getting his clothes all dirty.

He’s about to try and apologise when he feels something hot and sticky dripping on his fingers and realises Aziraphale is coming in his fist. He works him through it, his own spent cock giving a sympathetic twitch as the angel finishes.

Aziraphale turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyes half-closed and unfocused, cheeks flushed, lips parted to pant, and Crowley leans in to kiss him, deep and slow as the urgency of the moment slowly fades away and there’s only the two of them left, half-naked and dirty, but happy.

And then, something incredible happens: he starts to be able to perceive it. Aziraphale’s true form, thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, and then leaking out into the room. His shimmering, beautiful soul, his thousands of eyes and flames and wings are filling the room, invisible and terrifying and wonderful. It wraps tightly around Crowley - it fits perfectly against all the broken parts of his soul, fills all the cracks, sooths all the black, charred bits of him. The ghost of Aziraphale’s soul folds around his and makes him a promise. _You are mine now, and I am yours, and I am never going to leave_.

If this is what feels like to be haunted – Crowley thinks, deliriously, ecstatically – then he really doesn’t mind at all.


	12. Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercury is the planet of communication and connection. Crowley and Aziraphale are stuck in a room where not only they cannot lie, but they are also compelled to speak.
> 
> Prompt: magic.

Crowley is relieved to step into a much bigger room. Though, mostly, he’s just struggling not to smile. He's cleaned both of them with a snap of his fingers, and once they were fully dressed again Aziraphale intertwined their fingers and kissed his knuckles, looking into his eyes with so much love Crowley almost choked on his own tongue.

It’s fair to say he’s walking around in a state of happy stupor.

It doesn’t feel as if something has changed, not exactly. It feels more as if something has been put right. As if this has been a long time coming, and a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. They walk into the next room holding hands, and Crowley thinks that’s silly for two old entities like them, but he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“I don’t like this,” he says, when he realises the room is completely blank. There have been way too many surprises for his tastes so far, and he’d rather know immediately what they’re going to have to deal with.

“Me either, but I’m not worried,” Aziraphale smiles up at him. “As long as you’re with me, we’ll figure it out.” The angel’s hand immediately snaps over his mouth. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to say that aloud.”

“You should say more stuff aloud,” Crowley replies before he can stop himself. “I want to hear it.” He frowns as he looks at the blank wall in front of him. “I did not mean to say that aloud either.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Aziraphale lets go of his hand to circle the room, checking for an exit – but there are no doors or windows. “Oh, Eric told me about this.”

“I’m annoyed you became friends so fast,” Crowley says, and then bites hard into his bottom lip. That was not something he should have said, nope.

“We did not. I was trying to be civil and give him a chance. But he behaved horribly and I think he deserved what happened to him, after all he put you through. Not to mention trying to possess me, as if I wouldn’t have shattered him like a meringue.” Aziraphale’s hand goes back up over his mouth. “Oh dear, I really should stop talking.”

“Wait, tell me what you think this room is first.”

“Well, Eric said – and we’re not friends, Crowley, really, I don’t know where you get such ideas – this was his masterpiece. It’s a room where the people inside will feel an unstoppable compulsion to tell the truth.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, yes indeed.”

“And we get out – how?”

“By telling the truth, I suppose. Considering the kind of tricks Eric pulled so far, I'd wager once we reveal something we really would have rather kept hidden the door will appear. And not a moment sooner.”

Crowley snorts. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It will be alright, my dear. It’s only you and me, and there aren’t many things I’m worried about you hearing.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Well. There are some, I’ll concede. But they are few.”

“Are you willing to share one of them so we can try and get out of here?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. He shakes his head. “I meant to say - _yes_. I do want to get us out of here, since it’s all my fault.”

“Aziraphale, you don’t have to do a thing.”

“No, actually—there’s something I wanted to say anyway. We didn’t really get to talk, even though we’ve—”

“Yeah,” Crowley hurries to croak out before Aziraphale can finish that sentence, because if he has to hear the angel say aloud they’ve fucked he’s going to implode.

“There is another reason I was looking for you, when I found you in the club. There is something I wanted you to have.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale’s hand disappears inside his jacket, and then he’s pulling out a long string of colourful scarves.

“Oh no, please don’t tell me this is one of your magic tricks. I hate when you do that, my face does this weird thing I don’t like—”

“Smiling?”

Crowley glares at him and bites his tongue. “What is it that you wanted to give me?”

Finally, Aziraphale pulls a small box out of a pocket of his jacket. “Well… I didn’t mean to act like a sentimental old fool, but I thought—well, since our connections to Heaven and Hell have been severed now, and we’re by ourselves, that you might feel… adrift. Alone. Oh, Crowley, please interrupt me, I’m making a fool of myself here.”

“You’re not,” Crowley’s eyes jump between the little velvet box and Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, it’s probably too maudlin, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Will you please stop rambling and give me whatever it is?”

“Very well.” Aziraphale sighs and opens the box, pulling out a small silver ring. “May I?”

Crowley blinks at him for a few seconds before understanding Aziraphale is asking if he can put the ring on him. He quickly holds out his left hand, and Aziraphale slides the ring on his pinky finger.

It’s reminiscent of the pin he used to carry in Rome – the snake pattern etched into the metal, the coiling design that wraps perfectly around his finger.

“There,” Aziraphale says with a nervous smile. “Now we match. Oh dear, I told you it was maudlin.”

“No.” Crowley holds his hand close to his chest, as if he’s scared Aziraphale might take the ring back. “No, I like it.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes. And also, since—well, as you said, since we didn’t really get a chance to talk…” Crowley stops for a moment to think about it. Is he sure he wants to say it now, in this particular room, where he doesn’t have the ability to lie? He gulps. Yes. Maybe, this is the best place for it, actually. “Aziraphale, you should know - I’m never going to get bored with you. I haven’t been in six thousand years, angel. _Six thousand years_. Think about it. Do you remember that time at the Globe, during the rehearsal of Hamlet? When I said ‘age does not wither him nor custom stale his infinite variety’? I was talking about you. I’ve always been talking about you, to poets and painters and prophets.” He cringes as he hears the thoughts he’s been carrying inside his head finally spoken aloud. “Now _that’s_ maudlin.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes are full of indescribable emotion now as he takes Crowley’s hands in his and kisses him. Crowley is enchanted with how their hands look, their very different rings matching in a way that’s subtle yet perfect, absolutely bloody perfect. “Oh, there’s the door,” Aziraphale says, looking over his shoulder.

“Ngh, in a moment.” Crowley finds that he’s in no rush to get out, not when he has a happy angel in his arms, warm and real and finally his. “I want to kiss you a little more first.”


	13. Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sun, in astrology, represents power, creativity, and spontaneity.  
> Aziraphale and Crowley find their own way out of Eric's rooms.
> 
> Prompt: ritual.

“Ah, fuck,” Crowley says as soon as he steps into the room.

“What’s wrong?”

“I know exactly what this is.” He gives a long sigh as he looks around: empty dark room, chalk, candles everywhere, knives, rope. “A devocation ritual. No way. I’m not doing this.”

“What’s that? I never heard of it.”

“Course you haven’t,” Crowley taps his fingers against the keys of the Bentley in his pocket, gritting his teeth. “It’s not very angelic to channel a person’s spiritual energy and use it as a means of travel.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale squats down to touch a candle that is, disturbingly, the same colour as blood. “It looks a tad morbid, I’ll concede…”

“This is not ‘a little morbid’, Aziraphale. I’m supposed to hurt somebody to get their energy, reap it, and use it to get myself out of here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale is uncharacteristically still for a moment. “And is that—are you sure that is the _only_ way? Pain?”

Crowley understands what he’s getting at only once he notices the raised eyebrow on the angel’s face, the way his posture is straight but open, both feet turned to point at him, and the slight blush high on his cheeks. He’s thinking about sex, isn’t he?

“Uh. Well. It’s not as if I’ve ever tried...” Crowley realises something very important, all of a sudden. There is a good chance this is how it’s going to be between them for the next however many years. They were just intimate not an hour ago, and Aziraphale already wants more.

A memory comes to him, unbidden. It was many, many years ago, almost at the beginning, around the time humans realised how to make alcohol from fruit. How Aziraphale had refused because it didn’t seem safe, Heaven would never approve, surely it couldn’t be allowed, so on so forth. Crowley had pointed out to him that it was still food, it was just… food in a different form, that was all.

He remembers Aziraphale giving him a distrustful look, sighing, and muttering something about he was only doing this because Crowley would never leave him alone if he didn’t try it, and that he’d only take a sip.

Aziraphale had spent a considerable part of the next month very, very drunk. He’d sober up, sometimes, tell Crowley it was all his fault, and then ‘oh, but this one is new, I haven’t tried it yet’, and start all over again.

It’d become a thing, between them, to meet every once in a while to eat and drink together, just like the humans did, except they had the huge advantage of never having to be drunk a moment longer than they wished to.

And Crowley realises - it’s going to be the same thing with sex, isn’t it? Aziraphale is going to want a lot of it all the time, now that he finally has given himself permission to enjoy it. He must have a whole mental catalogue of things he wants to try, so much repressed energy to blow off.

Crowley feels very lucky, slightly terrified, and incredibly aroused at the prospect.

“Crowley?”

“Yes! Yes, okay. Let’s see, I’ll… I’ll start drawing on the floor. Complicated business, runes and esoteric symbols – it’s, ah, it’s a whole thing.”

“There seem to be many candles involved in the process,” Aziraphale says very slowly, loosening his bowtie. “I think I should avoid ruining my clothes. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes. Yep. Definitely. We don’t want to be ruining any clothes here, absolutely.” Crowley tries very hard to focus on what he needs to be doing, although it’s very hard to do whilst he can see Aziraphale teasingly undressing out of the corner of his eye.

Generally, the person performing the devocation ritual would draw an intricate magic circle on the floor, then they’d immobilise their victim – either by poisoning them or, much more brutally, tying them up with ropes – and lay them in the centre of the circle. Then they’d attack them, and the energy released from the victim would become the catalyst for the whole ritual and allow for supernatural travel through space.

There isn’t any rule that says that same energy can’t be released through sex instead. And, honestly, Crowley’s a little miffed Aziraphale barely has a clue what they’re doing and has already spotted a loophole.

He snaps into existence a thick black mat, because he refuses to have Aziraphale lie on the floor. He unrolls it in the middle of the room and starts drawing around it. When he’s satisfied with it, he looks back up – and finds the angel standing in a corner, silently watching him work, naked from head to toe, his clothes folded over an arm and barely covering his lower belly and groin.

Fuck, it’s been so long since he’s had a chance to take a good look at Aziraphale’s naked body. And yes, sure, it’s just his ‘corporation’, but still. Aziraphale’s cologne is just a bunch of chemicals thrown together, but it’s a smell he associates with safety and warmth. Aziraphale’s bookshop is a mess of books and dust, but it’s Crowley’s favourite place in the whole world. And Aziraphale’s corporation, well – a corporation worn for six thousand years is a part of him as much as anything else, and beautiful by extension.

He realises he’s staring, but he can’t make himself stop. Aziraphale’s feet are just as well-cared-for as his hands, soft and smooth. His legs are covered in thin, golden hair, and his thighs – the way they are round and fat just above the knee, and the uneven, generous surface of them as Crowley’s gaze travels farther up – a masterpiece is what they are. Crowley wants to bite them, he wants to spend an entire day between them. He _could_ , now. He actually could.

Aziraphale is sinfully soft around the hips, and Crowley remembers how his fingers dug into his flesh just two rooms ago. And the more he raises his gaze the more there is to see, the smattering of pale hair on his chest, his round pink nipples, those forearms Crowley has spent way too many nights guiltily picturing in great detail.

Aziraphale is blinking at him, very red in the face, and Crowley realises he’s allowing him to look, even though he might feel a little embarrassed at all the attention – but, probably, more than a little flattered too.

“Come here.” Crowley pats the mat near his knee, trying not to sound too excited and failing miserably.

The angel leaves his clothes in a neatly folded pile in a corner and lies on the mat, belly down, giving Crowley ample chance to stare at his arse. The thought that Aziraphale is doing this on purposes crosses his mind, briefly, but then the angel is clearing his throat and Crowley loses that train of thought.

“Like I said, Crowley, now there is no danger of ruining my clothes with wax.”

Crowley nods, not quite understanding that statement.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well—what?”

“The candles. You could use them, now.”

Crowley blinks dumbly at him. The candles? Is… is Aziraphale asking him to try out some wax-play? He has to stifle back a laugh. His beautiful, dirty-minded angel. He’s desperately in love with him, and he can’t help himself at all.

“Right.” He discards his glasses, takes off his jacket and rolls back his sleeves. He picks up a wine-red candle, gives it a hard stare and orders it to be just the right temperature – enough to sting a little, not enough to harm or burn. He tries it on the inside of his forearm for good measure and is satisfied with the soothing heat of it.

He starts on Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. He lets the wax drip slowly, checks constantly how the angel’s taking it – but Aziraphale seems to be enjoying himself very much, if his sweet sighs of pleasures are any indication.

He moves to his spine, all the way up to the back of his neck, and Aziraphale moans at that, hands tightening into fists.

“All good?”

“Hnnn…” Aziraphale’s drowsy expression, the way he adjusts his position so that his cock has a little room against the mat, and that little, obscene sound he makes – Crowley feels himself hardening very quickly inside his jeans. “Yes… it’s so good, Crowley. You’re so good.”

Crowley’s grip tightens around the candle at the praise.

Steady, steady, he needs to stay focused.

He keeps going. Down Aziraphale’s spine, onto the soft rolls of flesh on the small of his back, on sensitive areas that make the angel whine and squirm against the mat, rubbing himself against it and moaning out loud.

He drips a little wax on his buttocks too, and that’s when he feels Aziraphale’s energy beginning to fill the room. It’s so dense and strong that he’ll only need a little of it to get them both out of here. He takes a deep breath and whispers an incantation as he leaves the candle on the floor and runs his fingers over the picture he’s drawn on Aziraphale’s back.

A starry sky.

There is suddenly wind in the room, snuffing out all the candles and plunging them into darkness. Crowley closes his eyes and presses his lips to the nape of Aziraphale’s neck – and, a moment later, they’re on the floor of the bookshop. The curtains are closed, only the golden glow from one of Aziraphale’s table lamp lighting the room.

“Ah, we made it. I knew I hadn’t lost my touch. What do you—”

Before he can finish asking that question, Aziraphale has turned around and pulled him in for a kiss, and Crowley, well – he’s more than happy to stop talking for now. He wriggles out of his jeans because it’s become too painful to wear them, and Aziraphale immediately takes that as his chance to wrap his legs around Crowley’s thighs and drag him down against him.

Crowley makes a punched-out sound when their cocks rub together, and then Aziraphale sighs sometimes that sounds a lot like ‘ _fuck’,_ and he almost loses it altogether.

He’s very aware of the new ring around his finger as he slides a hand between their bodies and wraps it around both of them, beginning to stroke.

“Oh—Crowley, oh yes, Crowley, yes, yes, _yes_ —”

Aziraphale comes in his hand and Crowley can’t help but follow right after, making a complete mess of them, right there on the floor of the bookshop.

In the aftermath, he still can’t quite believe that this is happening, that Aziraphale is naked and filthy on the floor underneath him, but he has no time to think about it before the angel has captured his face in his hands and is kissing his mouth twice, thrice, too many times to count.

“Crowley, I promise—you shall never doubt again that you’re the most important thing to me.”

Crowley grins like the lovesick fool he is, drunk on pleasure, warm in a way he’s never felt before. “Happy Halloween,” he mutters, and he’s barely finished saying it before they’re kissing again.


End file.
